Snow On A Silent Sea
by Double Dog
Summary: Lost and in dire need of some help, Rodney gets it from a most unexpected source.


It's probably the third or fourth day before Rodney realizes he's leaving a faint but distinct blood trail in the snow, and that's wrong, that's totally wrong, because Rodney is supposed to notice everything, every little detail, no matter how small. 

"Oh, come _on_," he whines, and tries to draw the bearskin robe tighter around his shivering body.

It doesn't seem to help a whole hell of a lot, which makes sense because the robe is really more of a bearskin _towel_ than anything else, and Rodney is clad only in his boxers and undershirt. That's all they'd allowed the prisoners to wear. The problem is ... the problem _is_, and he has to think hard to get to this point, is that the bears on this godforsaken planet are too small.

That's the problem.

He doesn't know how long he's been walking (well, stumbling, really) along this frozen forest path, leaving this _goddamn blood trail._

As if the Orcs needed something so obvious to track him -- that's what Sheppard had called them, Orcs, after that stupid movie made in New Zealand, where the sheep outnumbered the humans and wasn't _that_ a telling sign.

And now where are Sheppard, and Ronon, and Teyla, and probably Carson fucking Beckett, for all he knew? Safe and warm, comfortable somewhere in orbit, beyond the reach of these goddamn fucking Orcs who would kill him when they found him.

Which should be fairly soon, because of the blood trail.

This isn't fair. He's cold, and he's hungry, and he's going to die in this horrible place where it's always winter, before he's completed his life work on the McKay New General Theory of Relativity. God, is he pissed.

He falls down, and lies for a moment in the snow.

Fuck Ronon, not being here. Ronon could've been carrying him this entire time. Ronon's tall, and strong, and it would have been so warm, and holy _shit_, what the hell's he thinking?

Rodney struggles up from the forest floor, the dead winter grass and twigs crunching under his palms. He hangs there, on his hands and knees, for just a moment. He clutches at the robe -- the thick fur brushes at his cheeks, but he can hardly feel it.

_Just a little farther_, he thinks. _Just a little farther, come on, Rodney, you can do it._

After all, he'd had to do the really hard stuff already -- subsisting on starvation rations, enduring endless interrogations, escaping the Orc prison camp -- could John Sheppard have done all that?

_Well ... yes_, if he really wants to be honest with himself, and since when has Rodney McKay not been honest with himself?

No. Don't go that route. Rodney McKay doesn't think about things like that.

What Rodney McKay thinks about right now is how his feet are frostbitten and bleeding and he doesn't have anything to bandage them with, and he's leaving a trail in the snow (which is coming down much faster now, thank you very much), and ...

And what?

_Time for more exercise_, he thinks, and levers himself upright. He staggers a moment, the weeks of abuse and lack of proper nutrition taking their toll.

_Time. Time is not a fixed construct_. And he takes one step, and then another, and staggers onward through the dark forest.

"I am so screwed," he says out loud, and it's the first complete sentence he's spoken in a month.

* * *

Rodney's sitting under a tree.

Rodney's sitting under a tree, and his back is against the tree, and his legs are stretched out in front of him, and he's staring at his feet.

He's got a problem. In addition to all his other problems, which are multitudinous and are actually starting to appear rather insurmountable.

_"Rodney,"_ a voice seems to whisper in his mind. _"Insurmountable? For the great Rodney McKay? Really, Rodney, I'm disappointed."_

"Shut up, Colonel," Rodney snaps, and then immediately thinks _Great, now I'm talking to the little voices in my head._

_"The little voices? Wow, you sure know how to hurt a guy."_

"Shut up," Rodney repeats. "You don't get to talk to me that way. You abandoned me." He snuffles a bit. "I'm going to die here, and it's all because of you."

"_Oh, Rodney, Rodney, Rodney,"_ the voice sighs, and doesn't that sound just like Sheppard's long-suffering tone. _"I haven't abandoned you. We're looking for you, even now."_

"Yeah. Right. You and the Orcs," Rodney says, and takes a deep, freezing breath. "You'll make a great team." His feet really hurt, and that's not a problem that's going to be solved anytime soon because the bearskin robe isn't quite big enough to cover his whole body at any one time.

_"Rodney?"_

Rodney leans forward and curses. He rubs at his calves and ankles.

_"We're coming for you, buddy."_

"Busy here," Rodney says, touching his fingers to his ice-cold toes. "Surviving here. Trying."

The blood is frozen under his fingertips.

* * *

It's late the next day when the talking wolf shows up.

At least, Rodney thinks it's the next day -- it's entirely possible now that night fell and the sun rose without him ever really noticing.

He's been thinking about galaxies, and equations, and why Zelenka speaks Czech sometimes and not others. He's gone through the periodic table at least a dozen times, reordering it by gas, liquid, solid, synthetic, then breaking it down further by alkali metals, halogens, the lanthanide and actinide series.

Grade-school stuff for him, really, so Rodney amuses himself by inserting new elements.

_Beckettium._ Alkali metal. Found only in Scotland.

His left foot, numb and dragging, catches on an exposed tree root and he goes sprawling.

_Rodnium_. Mostly liquid, solidifying into a frozen mass.

There's a pine cone an inch from his nose. He stares at it. His breath puffs white in the frigid air.

_Sheppardium._ The most valuable substance in the known ... Rodney blinks.

If he looks at the pine cone long enough, he can see the Fibonacci sequence within.

He starts counting each tiny brown shell of the cone spiral, the numbers falling comfortingly into place.

_0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55 ..._

"Rodney."

And he was just _thinking_ about Sheppard, and here he is!

Rodney rolls over onto his back, laughing a little. The snow is falling again, sifting down out of the dark gray sky.

"Colonel," he says. "I thought you'd never --"

He stops. A pair of wild golden eyes are looking directly into his own.

"Rodney," the wolf says again. "Come on. Stop reciting those cockamamie numbers -- they're not going to do you any good. You need to get up and get moving again."

Rodney holds very still. Bears. Orcs. Talking wolves.

"Well," he says at last. "Isn't this forest just full of unresolved fairy tales."

"Come _on,_" the wolf repeats in a gruff growl, and shit, that sure _sounds_ like Sheppard. It takes a few steps away, cocky and wary at the same time on long stiff legs, and _that's_ Sheppard too.

"Fine," Rodney grunts, sitting up and slowly, _painfully_ getting to his feet. Somewhere, deep down, the part of his mind that's still completely rational is gibbering that he's starting to hallucinate, and that's _a really bad thing_, circumstances being what they are. Rodney makes it shut up. If this ... _wild animal _wants to pretend it's Colonel John Sheppard for a while, that's just ... fine.

It's just that -- if he's hallucinating (_which you are_, his brain assures him) -- why isn't he seeing Samantha Carter like last time?

* * *

"One foot in front of the other, Rodney," the wolf counsels.

"Quiet," Rodney mumbles. "Makin' me ... lose m'train thought. Thought train." He frowns. "Train of thought." His tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth. "Slur," he says. "Sign ... hypo ... hypo ..."

"Hypothermia."

"Uh," Rodney agrees. "Bad news."

"So stop talking," the wolf says. "Do us both a favor."

Rodney stops talking.

_The entropy of a pure perfect crystal is 0 at 0 K: 'delta' S(0K) 0. The ratio of the squares of the revolutionary periods for two planets is equal to the ratio of the cubes of their semimajor axes: Ta2 / Tb2 Ra3 / Rb3. G is the universal gravitational constant. For the snark **was** a boojum, you see._

He falls down.

_G is the universal ... the universal ..._

"Oh, shit," Rodney whispers.

"Rodney?"

Rodney keeps his eyes shut. If he doesn't respond maybe the wolf will leave him alone.

"Time to get moving again, buddy. Come on." Warm doggy breath whuffles over his face. Rodney sighs in exasperation.

"Go 'way."

"Not going away, Rodney. Up and at 'em."

"Don' wan' to," Rodney whines. "Wanna sleep."

"No sleep. Still got a little ways to go. Come on now."

"Can't walk," Rodney murmurs. He's not sure if it's really true or not but he doesn't want to find out.

"Then crawl," the wolf says, and bites him on the left ear.

"_Ow! Fuck!_" Rodney twists away and opens his eyes at last. "You bit me!" He puts a cautious hand to his ear. "Am I bleeding?"

The wolf is sitting on its haunches, regarding him with those dark golden eyes.

"Yes. Now get going."

* * *

The snow is three or four inches deep now, and Rodney doesn't want to put his hands in it anymore. He's on all fours, just like the wolf that's walking slowly beside him, bumping his side occasionally.

"Can't do this," he croaks.

"Sure you can," the wolf says confidently. "Who's going to win the Nobel Prize next year if you stop now?"

Rodney shakes his head; snow drips down his forehead and into his eyes.

"Don' wan' Nobel."

The wolf stops and stares at him. For the first time it looks worried.

"What?"

"Cold," Rodney wheezes. "In ... Sweden. Freeze."

The wolf thumps its tail on the ground, tossing up little blizzards of fallen snow.

"Good one, Rodney," it says. "Now --"

There's a sudden _crash_ nearby, and both Rodney and the wolf jump. It sounds like a tree branch giving way, but it could just as easily be --

"Orcs," Rodney whimpers.

The wolf has already regained its composure.

"No," it says. "We're out of Orc territory already."

Now it's Rodney's turn to stare.

"They're not ... after me anymore?"

"Nope. They had to turn back at the border. Back there someplace." The wolf makes a dismissive motion with its muzzle.

"An' you din't _tell me?_"

"Needed you to keep moving. We may be out of Orc land, but we're still a little ways from where we can pick you up. Speaking of which --" The wolf steps closer and nudges Rodney with its cold, wet nose.

Rodney puts his head down.

"Hate you," he says feebly.

* * *

"Din't tell them anything," Rodney whispers. He's resting again, lying on his side. The wolf is huddled against his stomach, and Rodney has curled around the wolf as much as he's able.

He's not shivering very much anymore, but he doesn't know if it's the canine warmth or true hypothermia setting in.

The snow is still falling, and Rodney thinks how pretty it would be, if only it weren't killing him.

"Tol' them _some_ things," he amends. The wolf waits for him to continue. "Newton's Laws. Kepler. Firs' grade teacher. Papers. Grav'ty. Sediment'ry stuff." _No -- not the right word._ "Element'ry stuff. Din't tell them th' _big thing_ though."

"I know, Rodney," the wolf murmurs. "You did good."

"Want to see 'Lantis again," Rodney whispers.

The wolf is silent.

* * *

_Sometimes Atlantis looks like Oz, Rodney thinks. The Emerald City, if the Wizard had set it in a boundless ocean instead of at the end of a yellow brick road._

_Today it's golden under the late summer light, shining like some kind of beacon across the waves._

_Rodney stands on the balcony and looks out over the sea._

_A door opens behind him._

* * *

There are lights, lots of lights, and muffled voices. Rodney struggles to understand, to make sense of what's happening.

He's still cold, so cold, but he can't tell if he's still lying on the ground, or if it's snowing, or even if he's in the forest at all.

He can't feel anything.

_Maybe this is death_, he thinks, and then he's floating, as if borne up on a tidal wave.

The darkness looms again, and Rodney welcomes it. Either he's being rescued, or he's dying.

Whichever it is, he hopes he'll see Atlantis again soon.

Atlantis, in an ocean without horizons, where it never snows on the sea.

fin


End file.
